True Sex



CANADA -- Last night I decided that I was too tired to go out to MaRs and dance until 2:00, and decided to go home instead. Feeling quite horny I took a detour down to the seawall. I ran into a boy I had played with in Stanley Park, who from his accent I thought might be from Eastern Europe. I learned this time that he was in fact from Bogota. English for him was very new, but we managed best as we could to have a conversation anyway. Bogota is quite different than Vancouver. There is no gay neighbourhood or area, but every city in Columbia has places like the seawall and Stanley Park. Bogota has about six or seven million people. Gay bars exist in many of the different neighbourhoods. He was looking for something more than just quick sex, so being a bit cold and tired of standing around, I asked if he would like to come home with. We started the trudge up the Hill to Jervis. A block from Davie Street though he suddenly changed his mind. Saying somewhat fasiciously that I was tired and needed my sleep.

To hell with that, I thought, and I trundled back on down the hill to the beach. Once there a saw a young man, whose red baseball cap I recognized from a few nights earlier. I was very interested but we never managed to collide, although later I saw him under a tree with a friend fisting himself furiously.

They thought they were safely in the shadows, I suspect, but I could see them clearly from the sidewalk. He walked out to the edge of the ocean which seemed way out on the flat sands. The tide looked particularly low last night.

I sort of casually walked his direction, careful not to get so close as to cramp his space or seem like I was in "hot pursuit." He turned and looked straight at me, and started to walk directly towards me. Once within comfortable earshot, he asked me if I had a smoke. I told him I didn't smoke cigarettes. "Thanks anyway," as he continued his beeline for the pavement and park benches. He walked a little ways up and sat down on a bench. I decided to follow, but as I got close to the bench, another gentleman was fast approaching along the path, so I smile at him as I passed my prospect by.

Once the gentleman was a safely past, I again approached the bench and asked my new friend if he would like to smoke a joint. "You got one? — Sure!" He seemed delighted. "It'll just take me a minute to roll it," I said as I sat down beside him. "I'm Andy," I say. "Francis," he replies and extends his hand for a hearty handshake — firm. I immediately recognized his French Canadian accent, probably Montreal. He had beautiful eyes, the kind with thick black lashes but light in colour. He had short dark hair and a well-trimmed goatee. He had a broad, sturdy build and was wearing baggy demin overalls. I watched his hands in his pockets intently, but he didn't seem to be playing with himself. I asked him if he had been here long, and how he liked Vancouver.

"There's no real party here. In Montreal, we always party. Land is expensive here. Rent is expensive here. I pay $365 for a room in a hotel here. In Montreal I could get a whole big apartment for that. What's an apartment here, $500?" "That's a cheap one," I answer. "I had a penthouse on St. Catherines for $700 a month. It was above a Second Cup, that's why it was so expensive.

"I decided to have sex, and I missed my bus. I was in Winnipeg for six months" — saving for his plane fair here. But I would get so depressed there, I would spend all my paycheque on beer and pot. Pot's expensive there, $15 a gram. And my paycheque wasn't that big. And it wasn't easy finding a job. I put away $50 a paycheque. "I could have hitchhiked," he said, "but ..."

"But it was a new place, a new city," I interupted.

"Ya," he said, "I was the new guy in town so I got a lot of attention. But Winnipeg is very small, everybody talks. People shouldn't talk behind people's back. If you have something to say about them you should say it when their around. I asked this guy he was supposed to be this big stud, had sex with everyone, how many times a day do you have sex? 'A day?' he said, 'I have sex maybe five or six times a month!' For that they call you a slut?!? People start talking about me and noticing what I do, I move on. English people..." shaking his head, "In Montreal we have sex all the time, several times a day — with different people. French people know how to have fun."

"But six years of having sex all the time, partying all the time... You can't stay more than six years in Montreal."

Several more gentlemen passed by scrutinizing us. One hung around endlessly, sort of looking at us but not looking at us. I guess he was hoping we would put on a show or something.

Now finished the joint, Francis suggested we get up and walk that way a bit. "How young are you? he asks. Avoiding the question I say, "That's a different way of asking... How ol — young are you?" "20," Francis replies. As I am turning 34 in a couple of weeks, it dawned on me that it was physically possible for me to be as young as his father.

Francis apologized for his English and said he just started speaking English since he was in Winnipeg. I told him on the contrary that his English was really good, "Your grammar is perfect."

The first man we pass on the path has a lit cigarette. Francis asks if he can spare a smoke and the man generously offers him two. Since you don't smoke, I'll save the other one for later, tucking it behind his ear.

"That must be something you notice different about here," I said, "In Montreal, everyone smokes." "That's true," he laughs, "even the trolls smoke." I have no regrets he says. I smoke like a chimney, so what. I have sex all the time I don't regret anything in my life.

From there somehow the topic turned to probation and he gave me a thumbnail of his adult life. I've been very bad. I've done bad things and I've been to jail to pay for it. I want to start my life fresh.

I told my parents I was gay when I 14. My mother slapped my face, and my father almost killed me. I left home. They caught me and put me in a jail for young people, a detention centre. My parents said I ran away. I didn't run away they threw me out. How is a 14 supposed to make money? You have to be registered to get a job and make money so you they will catch you. You know how you make money?

"And pretty easy money too," I added. "Good money for the time you spend, better than a job."

"I sold pot," Francis said, "...and sometimes a little coke. The straight crowd liked me and the gay crowd liked me, so I had lots of people to support me, to sell to. I was good at it. I could always make $400, sometimes I would even make a $1000.

"Once a lady judge she asked me, 'Why do you do all those bad things, why do you sell drugs and sell your ass on the street?' 'Your parents are supposed to love you no matter if you're gay or not. Society took that away from me, so now I am acting back. I'm angry.' She knew what I was saying. She agreed."

I wasn't under their control anymore by 16.

I broke both my father's legs. There was nothing else I could do to get away, so I had to do it. I robbed people[?] Why did they say that I could stay there when they wouldn't let me? I guess they were afraid for their four kids, they were afraid they would be thought to be unfit parents. Get away from me you faggot, smashing up the office. My mother kept asking how could I do this and deny them me having children. I can screw some lesbo, I said, if you want me to have kids. No you have to be married to have kids. I said you don't have to be married, you just have to be there.

I am glad I am not crazy like my mother. Having my supper at exactly the same time every day. Having exactly the same thing, watching my protein, my fat, my vegetables. Like people who work, and then what do they do? They don't have sex. They look great but for what? In Winnipeg they are all very healthy, all very fit and work out. But it's all they do. Sure work out, but then go find someone to fuck after. You have to always find someone to fuck — three, four times a day...

By this time we had walked almost to Denman street. I asked him where we were going, and let him know that I had been sort of following him! He said, I don't have guest fee, for after 10:30 at my hotel. I would love to bring you there but... I said we could go to my place — which meant that climb back up that Davie Street hill. We break into a brisk pace straight up Davie.

It was about 1:00 when we reached the arpartment, my roommate was already in bed. We slipped immediately into my room. My roommate had done laundry, so I fumbled immediately to put the sheets back on the bed. Francis reclined on the futon by the open window and began to smoke his second cigarette. As I got down beside him and put my arm around him, our lips met and melted into soft probing, light kisses, gently exploring each other's mouths. Our hands explored more fervourously, strongly grasping and squeezing everywhere — shoulders, arms, chest, hips, thighs. Slowly, I popped the buttons off the straps on his overalls and peeled them down, exposing the outline of his rock hard prick which I rubbed roughly through his silky athletic shorts. He fumbled sexily with the buttons on my fly, and I had to stop to undo the hidden safety pin in place of the top button, to allow him access.

He had a beautiful big uncut dink. Not too thick, so that it almost slid easily down my opened throat. His build was massively solid. A thick freedom trail of thick, soft, dark brown hair leading up his chest. His thighs and butt were full and hard like a workhorse covered with a dusting of downy soft, dark hair.

He groaned as I continued to work his cock in my throat, then stopped and slowly licked and sucked my way down his bag and balls to the hard ridge that led to his deep crack.

I sucked and chewed on his perineum as I buried my nose deep into his buttcheeks and deeply inhaled. One of things I love most to do during sex. Francis pulled up one thigh to give me access and moaned. He was rough with his fingers. Roughly man-handling and digging his fingers around in my hole. This seemed to make him very excited.

He kept at least one musclely arm wrapped tight around me all night, with either him or me spooning the other the whole time. He said he couldn't sleep naked and put his T-shirt and breakaway track shorts back on. I had bearly slept an hour when I woke and snuggled my way down to his crotch while he groaned and played with my hair in his sleep. I sucked and nursed and licked at his cock, balls and ass most of the night. Once he got real close he would take over and jack off vigorously. He gave great head too, deeply swallowing my swollen and hard-til-it-hurts dick from which oozed a constant trickle of pre-cum. He sucked and chewed on my nipple as I finished myself off.

My roommate tried to wake us at 8:00 but he was not easy to stir! I lavished him with attention hugging, squeezing and stroking him, until he woke into yet another episode of sex my face buried again deep in his ass. By the time I came, (this time he didn't) and got up to brush my teeth, it was 9:10. Luckily I was supposed to have been at the chiropractor at 8:30 so I had an excuse already set up at work.

Throughout the next day at work, when I would raise my hands cover my face and inhale I could smell the musky odour of Francis's butt. And I washed my hands and face quickly at home on my way to work — honest! I was almost embarrassed that someone else would smell it — but I also took a secret pleasure in knowing that even if they did, they probably would never recognize that scent.